


colors of the heart

by sodium_amytal



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Background Steve/Peggy - Freeform, Banter, Developing Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, M/M, Past Bucky/Brock, Past Domestic Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-13
Updated: 2019-09-13
Packaged: 2020-10-17 21:01:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20627471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sodium_amytal/pseuds/sodium_amytal
Summary: “Just hear me out,” Bucky interrupted, and Sam did so. “Steve knows a lot of my secrets, but there’s one I haven’t told anyone. I like you a lot, so if I’m ever going to talk, it has to be now—before things ever get serious. You get that, don’t you?”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by [sodium_amytal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sodium_amytal/pseuds/sodium_amytal) in the [iibb2019](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/iibb2019) collection. 

> **Prompt:**
> 
> AU. Bucky deals with past trauma and builds a relationship with Sam.
> 
> (Or, I refuse to break out of my comfort zone of writing "contemporary beach-read slice-of-life romance fiction".)

1

Prospect Park was Bucky's favorite place to jog, and although there was usually high attendance on sunny days, the park was big enough that he never felt crowded. He could crank up the volume on his headphones, block out his thoughts with hammering guitars, and follow the winding pathway that was more shade than sunshine. He loved the wide open space and the paved trails that felt as though they could take him to the ends of the earth. He loved the occasional spots of sunlight that beamed on him before he ducked underneath the long shadows of trees that lined the path. The park was his own personal oasis.

Running had become somewhat of a compulsion for Bucky, and, if you asked Steve, an obsession. Within the first two months of returning from Moscow, Bucky had already shed fifteen pounds. Steve had casually commented on these changes, as if dropping some kind of hint, but Bucky had chosen to take them as compliments. It wasn't as if he was going to stop; he'd gotten addicted to the blast of endorphins he felt while running, to the satisfaction of coming home with his sleeveless t-shirt dark with sweat and the stump of his left arm itching under his prosthetic.

He was jogging along the lake when a text message came in. He slowed to a stop and checked his phone: _Will you come over for dinner tonight? We have a surprise. :)_

The text was from Peggy, Steve's wife. Bucky was a regular guest of Steve and Peggy Rogers, dining at their home at least once a week.

Bucky wrote back that he'd be happy to come, and that he was curious what the surprise might be. He checked the time; he ought to cut his run short today.

#

Six o'clock found Bucky arriving at the Rogers' home. The house was nestled amongst quiet neighborhood streets, had rustic white-washed interiors, earth-toned furniture, along with wood and stone motifs to round out the modern farmhouse theme. Peggy greeted him at the front door after he knocked. Her hair hung in loose waves on either side of her face, and she wore a loose white blouse with a high-waisted skirt. "Bucky, I'm so glad you could come," she said, giving him a brief hug before ushering him inside. "Steve and I both."

"Wouldn't miss it for the world," Bucky told her.

"You only came for Peggy's macaroni salad," Steve joked, drawing him into a one-armed hug and giving Bucky a friendly slap on the back.

Bucky helped Peggy bring the food platters to the table. Tonight's dinner consisted of macaroni salad, green beans, and cheese-stuffed meatloaves. Once the dishes were spread across the table, everyone sat and served themselves with oversized spoons. Peggy and Bucky sat across from each other, and Steve sat at the head of the table, as though unwilling to choose between the two of them.

The dining room had floral wallpaper reminiscent of Grandma's house, cream wainscoting, and an Antoinette crystal chandelier. Bucky knew the decor was a marriage of both Peggy and Steve's tastes; Steve leaned toward retro, vintage styles, while Peggy preferred things a bit more modern.

"So what's this big surprise you two've been hyping up?" Bucky asked, chewing a forkful of green beans. They were long and thin and snapped between his teeth like wafers.

Steve and Peggy shared a mischievous look; Bucky wondered if they'd rehearsed this. "Well, why don't I just come out and tell you," Peggy said. A bright smile crossed her face. "I'm having a baby!"

This hit Bucky like a jolt, though it probably shouldn't have. Steve and Peggy had been wanting to have children for years, but they were never in a place where it was feasible; Steve's job as a police officer put him in too much danger, and the pay wouldn't have covered a child's expenses in addition to the mortgage Bucky assumed was through the roof, considering their neighborhood. Six months ago, Steve had been promoted to police lieutenant, and this position gave him a considerable amount of on-the-job safety. He spent most of his time as a law enforcement middle-manager and serving as an ambassador for the department at civic meetings, school functions, and various community efforts. The extra cushioning on his paycheck was definitely a plus.

"Oh, wow! Did you just find out today?" Bucky asked.

Peggy shook her head. "Wednesday evening. It took all I had to keep it a secret this long."

Steve chuckled. "If I had a nickel for every time I wanted to tell you," he said to Bucky.

Bucky said he was happy for them both. After a round of congratulations, Steve said, "Buck, there's something else."

"Don't keep me in suspense."

"We wanted to ask if you'd be the godfather."

"You gonna make me an offer I can't refuse?" Bucky said in his best Marlon Brando impersonation. Deflecting with humor: a Bucky Barnes specialty. "You guys really want me to do that? Me?" It struck him as an absurd notion; in the event something awful happened to Steve and Peggy, they wanted _him_ to raise their child? Though he supposed it made sense, considering the couple's lack of better options; Steve's father ran off shortly after he was born, Steve's mother died of cancer, and Peggy's parents were getting too old to take care of a young child.

"You'd be a great parent," Steve said. "But no hard feelings if you don't want to."

Would Steve still believe that if he knew Bucky was a murderer? Shit, what would the kid think when they saw Bucky's metal left arm?

Bucky smiled and said, "I'd be honored."

He stayed for dessert (a scrumptious bowl of banana pudding), helped clear the table and clean up the kitchen, and chatted with the two of them until ten. Peggy thanked Bucky and gave him a kiss on the cheek as she led him to the door. Steve walked him out, slinging an arm around Bucky's shoulders. "About the godfather thing, you can always change your mind," Steve explained. "Being a single parent isn't easy. My mom showed me that."

"What makes you think I'll still be single when you and Peggy have your unfortunate accident?" Bucky asked with good humor.

Steve shrugged in aquiesce. "It could shake out that way, is all."

"Say that it does. Your bundle of joy will score me some points with the dating crowd. Single dads are hot right now."

Steve laughed, and they both paused upon reaching Bucky's Jeep parallel-parked at the curb. "I know we talked a lot about the baby tonight, but what about you? Are you good?"

"I'm awesome."

"Are you? Because we've never talked about Brock since you got back from—"

Bucky cut him off, shaking his head. "Whatever, man. Water under the bridge."

Steve gave Bucky a familiar scolding look. "Alright. Come talk to me when you decide not to be an idiot." He offered up a wry smile, and Bucky returned it. Their decades-long friendship had been made of moments like this, teasing that nudged but never pushed. It was one of the things Bucky loved most about Steve.

"You're the first on my list," Bucky said, but even then he wasn't sure.

They said their goodbyes, and Bucky made the drive home. His apartment building had that classic New York look, with a brick exterior and blocks of windows. Fire escapes hung like red licorice vines from the building's face. In his bedroom, he changed into a sleeveless t-shirt and a pair of boxer shorts. He brushed his teeth and climbed into bed, waiting for sleep.

Sleep did not come. What came instead were replays of his own personal horrors, roused from their mental graves by Steve's offhand comment about Brock. Bucky's obsession with running stemmed from this intense repression, and, in some ways, Bucky felt as though he might be able to outrun Brock entirely, to shed those experiences and past life like a snakeskin.

Bucky had met Brock Rumlow six years ago at the Knotfest music festival in San Bernadino, California. A fan of rock and metal since his teenage years, Bucky had made a point of attending as many shows as his budget permitted; a three-day festival with over twenty bands was a must-see, even if it was on the other side of the country. "A nu-metal Woodstock," was how he'd explained it to Steve. Bucky and Brock had crossed paths in the mosh pit on Saturday during Anthrax's set. Conversation had been easy enough between songs, and when the night came to a close they'd headed to a nearby bar to keep the chemistry going, then back to Bucky's hotel room where Brock had fucked him into a delirious orgasm.

Looking back, his biggest mistake had been giving Brock his number after the festival. If Bucky had written off Brock as a one-weekend fling, he might have spared himself a great deal of misery. But the desperate part of Bucky latched on to the interest and attention Brock showed him, and this vulnerability served as a kind of radio signal detectable only by men like Brock Rumlow. The thing was, Brock had been okay at the start. He might have had a tendency to say shitty things he didn't mean (according to him, at least), but sometimes, for no reason at all, he would send Bucky little gifts "just because." Most of those trinkets were accessories relating to his favorite bands, movies, or video games. Granted, Brock only mailed these gifts after performing some kind of cruelty, but Bucky assumed that was his way of apologizing without going through the awkward business of saying the words.

Over the course of five years, their relationship had evolved steadily through phone conversations, Skype chats, and occasional weekend stays at Brock's apartment in Los Angeles. During one of these stays, they had left a trendy sushi restaurant, and after both of them had climbed into Brock's Hummer, Brock said, "Barnes?" (He was always 'James' or 'Barnes' with Brock, never 'Bucky.')

Bucky had been staring out the window, gazing at the neon signs that lit up the night. When he turned toward Brock, his head had suddenly slammed against the headrest of the passenger seat. The sound Brock's hand had made against Bucky's flesh was a sickening wet smack. Bucky's cheek and jaw throbbed, due in part to the class ring Brock wore on his right hand. "What the fuck?" He tasted thin drops of blood on his tongue.

"I saw the way you were flirting with that fucking bitch," Brock snarled. If pointing out the Game of Thrones button on their waitress's lanyard and chatting her up about the show constituted flirting, then Bucky supposed he was guilty as charged, at least where Brock was concerned.

"I was just being friendly," Bucky had said, his face still stinging from the blow.

"A little _too_ friendly. Let's get one thing straight: a pretty girl like that would take one look at your arm and run the other way. Not me. You remember that, Barnes."

Bucky swallowed thickly. Speaking with enormous effort, he said, "I—I never asked to be like this."

"Yeah, well, we all play the hand we're dealt," Brock had said and started the car.

The turning point had come a year later. "Move in with me, Barnes," Brock had demanded over the phone. "I'm going to Moscow next month." Brock worked as an English teacher overseas; he'd been on summer break when he and Bucky met.

"As in Russia?"

"No, the local one."

Bucky ignored the jab; he was used to those by now. "That's—that's a long way from home on such short notice. Can I have some time to think about it?"

"What's to think about? You're not screwing around on me, are you?" Brock said in that high-tension charge of a growl. Bucky had denied the accusation, and Brock uttered a nasty laugh. "I'm just yanking you. Of course you're not. No one's lining up to date amputees, especially not your boy Steve." It had been a mistake to tell Brock about his silly crush on Steve, Bucky knew that much already. "So what's keeping you here?"

"My job?" Bucky said, his voice lilting up at the end and turning his answer into a question. But Brock knew Bucky's cybersecurity background would travel quite well.

"If that's how you want to play it, fine. Take a walk. I won't stop you. But if you do, I'm gone. I won't waste my time with somebody who's too stupid to know a good thing when he sees it."

The anger Bucky felt at being berated did not preclude the love he felt for Brock—or at least what he _believed _to be love. Because Brock had chosen him, for reasons unknown to Bucky. Brock shared his tastes in music (Steve would never understand the appeal of shredding guitars and screaming vocals), and above all Brock did not pity Bucky for his physical disability. On the contrary, Brock occasionally took verbal jabs at Bucky's amputee status, as though it was a comfortable topic between them. It hadn't been, but Brock's remarks only solidified what Bucky, in his weakest moments, feared to be true: that he was a freak, and he was lucky to have someone like Brock who looked past his flaws.

Bucky turned onto his side, listening to the mattress creak and shift as he did. His brain couldn't let go of the nasty spiral his thoughts had become, and his heart raced just thinking about the way Brock's class ring glinted in the light just before making contact with Bucky's face. But he knew he couldn't spend the rest of his life running through Prospect Park when his mental dam sprung a leak and intrusive thoughts came pouring through. And (tonight, at least) he couldn't guzzle the bottle of whiskey that sat on top of the fridge; he hated waking up with hangovers, and the older he got the less he could tolerate them.

He needed to not think about Brock or his arm or the baby or his potential fatherhood. He needed to not think about anything.

Bucky slid out of bed and pulled on a pair of jeans, threw on a hoodie over his t-shirt. He stepped into a pair of sneakers and drove to the nearest multiplex. The Nitehawk was closest, a place Bucky had visited hundreds of times since returning to Brooklyn, and it was small enough that he wouldn't feel overwhelmed by a huge crowd. He bought a ticket for a shitty sci-fi flick that had been showing for almost a month. It was, as he hoped, a sparse house; there was one other person inside the small theater room, though he was sitting in Bucky's favorite spot: the middle seat in the back row. Bucky took the same seat in the row below and toyed with the vape pen in his hoodie pocket.

The lights dimmed, and the movie began. The film struck the perfect balance between awful and watchable, veering into "so bad it's good" territory. There were awful CGI aliens, laughable performances from the actors, and glaringly green-screened backgrounds. But it amused Bucky enough to distract him, and that was all right. About halfway through the movie, during the part where the main character's pet robot falls in love with one of the aliens, Bucky took a quick hit from his vape pen. Sweet strawberry vapor billowed from between his lips.

"We get it, you vape," said a voice from behind him.

Bucky had forgotten the guy was even there. "Sorry," he murmured. It was something he said without really thinking about it, a verbal tic acquired from his years with Brock, the way a species of lizard might develop camouflage to survive its predators.

"I'm just messing with you. Smoke 'em if you got 'em."

Bucky looked over his shoulder at the man. He had a kind smile, the type that reached his eyes. It reminded Bucky of Steve. "You know this movie sucks, right?"

The guy laughed a warm, sweet sound. "That's half the fun." He kicked up his feet on the back of the seat beside Bucky. "What brings you to a late-night bad movie?"

This sort of rumination was just what Bucky had come to the cinema to avoid. He tried to dodge the question by saying, "You're gonna miss the best part," and turning toward the screen.

"According to who? Spoiler: the robot and alien have weird, psychedelic sex."

Bucky made a face and turned back to the man. "How do you _know_ that?"

"I may have seen this movie a couple times."

"People like you are the reason they keep making these things."

"Alright, Roger Ebert, what kind of movies do _you_ like?"

"Any answer I give would probably make you think I'm a serial killer." Bucky chuckled, as to not _actually_ seem like a serial killer, though that's probably what a killer would do in this situation.

"You mean horror movies? Nothin' wrong with that. People like you are the reason they keep making 'em. I'm not up to date on most of the newer ones, but I can kick back and watch Candyman when the mood strikes."

Bucky preferred this guy's company to the piss-poor movie. He vaulted over his seat and took the empty one beside the stranger. "I like the Hellraiser movies—even the bad sequels can be entertaining—anything Cronenberg has a hand in, Jacob's Ladder, Event Horizon… I want something that will stick in my head and unsettle me for a long time." There might be another common thread regarding the body as a locus of fear, but that was a subject better suited to a therapist. "I also really like the stuff Rob Zombie's directed," Bucky continued. "I know most of them aren't objectively good movies, but they have a _feel,_ y'know? I want a film to suck me in and make me feel like I've lived it right alongside the characters."

"Let me guess: you're a film student?"

"Believe it or not, no. I got my degree in computer network security and forensics. I did take a film appreciation class for one of my electives, but that's as far as it goes."

"You had me fooled." The stranger extended his hand and introduced himself as Sam Wilson, then they weren't strangers anymore.

"James Barnes. But my friends call me Bucky." _Flirt alert_, Bucky thought, and if Steve were here he certainly would have said it. In the dark, lit only by the flicker of the movie screen, Sam's face had attractive curves and angles. It was a face Bucky knew would be dazzling when they stepped into the light.

"Nice to meet you, Bucky."

"Likewise. So why are _you_ here at a late-night bad movie?"

Sam's smile was melancholic, as though he was looking at something only he could see. "Keeping a tradition, I guess you'd say."

They sat together in the dark. Occasionally Sam would comment on the film, and Bucky would laugh, then Sam would start laughing too. Bucky took a few hits off his vape pen, and Sam sipped at his soda. It felt, Bucky realized, like a date—a _proper_ date—the kind that didn't end with the imprint of a class ring stamped onto his skin like a hellish tattoo.

Bucky stretched his legs and yawned as the credits rolled. "Double feature?" he asked, looking over at Sam.

"Can I take a rain-check? I'm beat."

"Yeah, me too." It seemed as though Bucky had just asked for and earned a date with Sam through no direct intentions of his own. If he had thought about it, he probably would have fucked it up.

They exited the theater, and Sam dumped his empty cup into the nearby trash bin. It took Bucky's eyes a moment to adjust to the bright lights of the cinema, but his intuition about Sam was right on the money: Sam was handsome in a casual, easy-going way, the kind of guy you could easily imagine throwing back a few beers with during a football game. The small gap between his two front teeth served as an anchor point for the rest of his good looks; it grounded him somehow, made him seem more real.

Sam dug into the back pocket of his dark jeans. He took out his wallet and removed a business card. "If you ever wanna cash in that rain-check, give me a call."

Bucky took the card and saw Sam's name, cell phone number, and the address of a nearby church printed across the front.

"I offer counseling services at St. Joseph's," Sam said by way of explanation. "Art therapy for veterans with PTSD."

"Good deal. I could've used some of that after I got home from Iraq."

"Door's always open. Or we can just catch a movie instead. Your call." Sam said his goodbyes and headed through the exit. Bucky stood there for a moment and wondered if this was the beginning of some small, sweet dream.


	2. Chapter 2

2

Sam spent Saturday afternoon hosting his counseling sessions at St. Joseph's. While he'd parted ways with the churchgoing part of religion, Sam still had faith in _something; _whether that something was God had yet to be determined. But Sam had been raised with the Lord's teachings, and old habits were hard to break, so here he was.

He held court over a small group of about thirty to fifty people on any given weekend. He used the church's youth fellowship room to hold the meetings, and he often felt as though he was a teacher at night school, given the size of the room and his audience. The attendees were a mix of men and women from all walks of life, though the ages of the crowd tended to skew around Sam's age or older. There were a few younger faces though, and Sam was overjoyed to see Bucky among them today.

Sam's sessions were geared toward creativity as therapy; he would establish a theme—painting, drawing, writing, handcrafts—and keep it running for three days a week. During the creation of their crafts, the participants could share their thoughts and experiences, or they could choose not to share at all. The point, Sam felt, was to bring people with shared experiences together and give them an outlet for their emotions. He believed hands-on hobbies fed dopamine receptors in the brain, stimulated conversation, and encouraged socialization that crossed generation gaps, racial and cultural differences. The feeling of finishing something tangible was like no other, a kind of satisfaction that inspired more creation in a positive feedback loop.

Sam could see this helped the members of his group, because he could _see_ emotions. These emotions presented as auras not unlike the kind described by psychics and chakra enthusiasts. In this way, it was almost a form of synesthesia.

Today's exercise was a continuation of the drawing sessions. Returning participants brought their own sketchbooks, while newcomers grabbed provided supplies. Sam kept an eye on Bucky; even at the theater last night, he could sense Bucky carried some kind of darkness, but it had a different color than Sam was used to. Bucky's aura was a mix of red, pink, dark blue, and ice blue, resulting in a soft purple. It was the ice blue that had Sam puzzled; it was a color he had seen in auras before but didn't know how to decode it.

Eventually, Sam made his way to the back of the room where Bucky sat at one of the long tables. "Howdy, stranger," Sam said, sneaking a peek at Bucky's artwork. He didn't expect to see the image of a plague doctor in some kind of spooky forest, but that was what Bucky had drawn. "That's… different."

"I think they look cool," Bucky said with a shrug. He pencilled in an owl on one of the tree branches. His style was a lively mix of cartoony and abstract, utilizing lots of sharp angles and points. "You take lessons before?"

Bucky shook his head. "A friend of mine used to draw a lot. He kind of taught me the ropes, I guess."

Sam wondered who that friend was; were he and Bucky close the way Sam and Riley had been? "Glad to see you here." He noticed Bucky wore a black leather glove on his left hand; That particular detail had slipped past Sam's radar last night, though he wasn't exactly paying much attention to the guy's hands at the time.

"I had nothin' better to do," Bucky said with a wry smile. Sam couldn't help but like Bucky. He had a James Dean type of charm, and it didn't hurt that Bucky was easy on the eyes either.

"No movies to see?" Sam teased right back.

"They're not as much fun when you're alone," Bucky said softly, and his aura blazed pink: a color representing kindness, an open-hearted nature, or love. Bucky seemed to be flirting with him. Sam, in a rare moment of speechlessness, shot Bucky an inviting smile, as though attempting to communicate that he received Bucky's flirt signals and reciprocated them. Maybe he should have winked to make that clearer.

After the allotted forty-five minutes of drawing, Sam opened the floor for anyone to speak if they chose to do so. Some attendants preferred to showcase their drawings, letting their art speak for them. A man old enough to be Sam's father drew an impressive cityscape and said it was supposed to be Brooklyn in the 1950s, the Brooklyn he remembered from his youth. A blonde woman with a serious face sketched a simple cartoon of a girl and her dog, stating that she wanted to illustrate children's books. Bucky, however, did not bring attention to his artwork, much to Sam's dismay. He'd been hoping to learn something more about Bucky: what made him tic, what significance the dark and macabre had in his life. Perhaps those were questions better suited for one-on-one conversation than a group setting.

At the end of the hour, after the group had filed out and the stress in their colors had lessened, Bucky still sat with his sketchbook in front of him. Sam approached his desk and said, "I didn't expect you to show up."

"Why's that?"

"You'd be surprised how many people are ashamed of coming to meetings like this. Some see it as an admission of weakness."

"I don't think I would be surprised. I'm not ashamed," Bucky said, choosing his words carefully. "I'm just—It's hard to talk about how I feel or about… things that happened to me."

"I get it, and you're not alone. But life's a lot easier when you can talk about that stuff. It's like going on a mission and knowing the guy beside you has your back no matter what." Sam knew enough to drop the subject there. If Bucky wanted to talk, he would. Trying to rush him would only backfire and make him clam up.

"You want lunch?" Sam asked. "There's a pretty good ramen place just down the street. Even if you don't like ramen, the apps are killer."

Bucky said he could do for a bite, and they walked to the ramen shop on the corner. It was a small, hip joint filling up fast at midday. They sat near the front window and watched the traffic on Pacific Street. Bucky's aura hovered in the pink, occasionally dipping into dark blue: the color of guilt, shame, nervousness or, on some occasions, all three. Most people Sam encountered in his counseling sessions had red in their auras—it was a color that seemed to go hand-in-hand with trauma, but the red was absent in Bucky's aura, or at least shoved into the deep recesses of his mind.

Assessment: Bucky enjoyed Sam's company but was, presumably, nervous. That was all right. Sam could work with nervous.

Bucky studied the menu and sipped his Coke. "You said the apps are good here?"

"The wings alone are pretty good, but I love the tots. They throw that spicy mayo on there and bonito flakes—Have you ever had okonomiyaki?"

Bucky hesitated, as though he wasn't sure what Sam was talking about but didn't want to seem uncultured.

"Just give it a try," Sam suggested, "and if you don't like 'em, they're on me."

Bucky ended up ordering the wings, the tots, and a pork bun. Sam chose a bowl of miso ramen with roasted pork. While they waited for their food, Sam asked, "What else do you do in your spare time besides go to movies alone at night?"

"I run." Bucky paused, searching for the words. "It soothes something in me, I guess." He studied Sam's face. "And, I know, vaping's bad for my lungs, but I took up smoking when I spent a year in Moscow. It was a stress thing. Since I came back to Brooklyn, I've been trying to wean myself off the nicotine."

"You're not in court, my man, and I'm not a judge."

"That's good to hear." Bucky paused again. "Other than that, I guess… I listen to music."

"Anything I might have heard?"

Bucky grew suspiciously shy. His right hand curled around the glass of Coke, like it was some kind of good-luck charm. "Stuff like Metallica, Korn, Nine Inch Nails, White Zombie… I guess you'd call it 'angry white boy music.'" He laughed, but Sam knew it was fake; dark blue swirled around Bucky like ghost tails.

"I live for Motown and '70s soul, but you do you. Different tastes make the world go 'round. Somebody give you shit for what you like?"

"Not exactly, but I know what people think about that kind of music."

"Fuck 'em," Sam scoffed. "Taste in music or movies or whatever is the dumbest metric we use to judge other people. If somebody doesn't like you 'cause of the music you listen to, that's just the trash taking itself out of your life."

Bucky smiled. "I see why you got into the counseling business."

"That's just something I do to give back to the community and fellow vets. My actual business is air traffic control at LaGuardia."

A look of surprise crossed Bucky's face. "That's a lot more impressive than cybersecurity."

"I think we're about on the same playing field," Sam said. He wanted to find out who taught Bucky this saddening self-deprecation so he knew whose ass to kick. "But I had an advantage: I did my time in the Air Force, and after two tours of duty they paid me to go to school."

Their food arrived, and they both dug in with gusto. Bucky fumbled tots into his mouth with the chopsticks, which amused Sam. After he had chewed a couple, he said, "So, Air Force, huh?"

"58th Rescue Squadron. What about you?" Sam asked. Bucky had mentioned Iraq the last time they met, so Sam figured he was a veteran too.

"US Army. 42nd Infantry Division."

"The Rainbow," Sam chuckled, referring to the division's nickname and insignia.

"Loud and proud," Bucky joked. Sam expected to see nervousness bloom in Bucky's aura, but it stayed level with his other dormant feelings. Fondness blossomed above all the others, and Sam saw that as a win. Whatever worries Bucky might have had, they weren't interfering with his ability to have a good time. Bucky lowered his voice and said, "My friend Steve—the one who taught me to draw—he saved my life over there. It was a car bomb—or so they tell me. My memories of it are fuzzy even now. Anything with enough force to chuck a grown man through the air is best forgotten. But the story that's been explained to me goes like this: Steve risked his life, under enemy fire, to carry me to safety after the bomb blast. Got himself a Medal of Honor out of it too."

"Is that what keeps you up at night?" Sam wondered. "The blast?"

Bucky shrugged and exhaled a small sigh. "Sometimes." He picked up a wing and nibbled on it.

"Well, you look damn good for a guy who stepped in the way of a car bomb."

Bucky managed a weak smile, and his gloved hand curled into a fist. Sam wondered if Bucky was even aware of it, or if it was some kind of unconscious reflex. The real question was what Sam would see underneath that glove, and if it had anything to do with the surge of dark blue in Bucky's aura.

Bucky's awkwardness with the chopsticks prevented him from scarfing down the food the way he might have wanted to. Intent on keeping him comfortable, Sam asked, "Got any movie recommendations for me?"

Bucky chewed this question over, as though taking great care with his answer. He licked a smear of sauce off his thumb. "The first Hellraiser is great. It's more of a slow, creeping horror than stuff like Nightmare on Elm Street or Friday the 13th. Hellraiser 2 is the only decent sequel, then they all go to shit. Night of the Hunter is good if you like old-fashioned suspense and no gore. Go with Eraserhead if you want to watch an LSD fever-dream. And if you can track down the '80s revival of the Twilight Zone, there are some really bone-chilling ones there. YouTube had most of the good ones the last time I checked."

Sam lifted an eyebrow. "I'm surprise you recommend the Twilight Zone remake over the original."

"Well, everyone's seen the original. I'm trying to suggest things you might not have seen already."

"Point taken." Sam tested his soup to see if it had cooled since it was delivered. Just right. "Which episode is the one where the actor died in real life?"

"That was the movie," Bucky said. "Nobody died for real on any of the shows."

"Is the movie any good?"

Bucky made a face that said it wasn't. "Just watch the original show or some of the '80s episodes. I'll text you a list of my favorites. What's on your list of recommendations?"

"You want something good or something stupid and fun?"

"Surprise me."

"Hell Comes to Frogtown is the dumbest shit I've ever seen," Sam said. "It's basically Mad Max meets Planet of the Apes, but with frogs. The main character's name is Sam Hell, which tells you right away the film does not give a single fuck. But that's what makes it kind of awesome. We need a return to the 'no fucks given' school of filmmaking. They might not have been good, but at least they were entertaining."

"That's a weird way to sell a film," Bucky said, "but you've done it. Is it Sharknado bad or Battlefield Earth bad?"

"I wanna say Sharknado. It knows it's a dumb movie and doesn't try to be anything else."

Bucky said he'd check it out, then he took out his phone and began typing something (using his right hand, Sam noticed). About two minutes later, Sam's phone vibrated in his pocket. He checked the screen. A text from (presumably) Bucky read: _For TZ eps, try Nightcrawlers or Toys of Caliban if you want nightmares. To See the Invisible Man is a mindfuck. A Little Peace and Quiet is chilling. Notable mentions: Dealer's Choice, The Shadow Man, Monsters, A Small Talent for War, A Matter of Minutes, Gramma, Need to Know… That should get you started._

Sam chuckled. "You sure know your stuff."

"I'm a repository of mostly useless knowledge."

"I wouldn't call it useless," Sam told him. "You helped me out."

Bucky smiled.

#

That night, Sam checked out a few episodes from the list Bucky had sent. Each one was a grand slam of disturbing and chilling; Bucky had meant it when he said he liked things that got under his skin. Without much gore, the episodes managed to unnerve Sam and seem to doom him right along with the characters. The unpolished, almost grimy cinematography brought the footage to life in a way the original series (in all its black and white glory) could not, at least where Sam was concerned.

He reached for his phone on the night stand and found that Bucky had sent him a text: _That frog movie was ridiculous in the best way. It gave me a few laughs I wasn't expecting. Got any more recs?_

Sam wrote back: _I know you warned me about those episodes but holy shit the one about the kid with the special powers got me FUCKED UP! The original TZ wasn't this terrifying, was it?_

Bucky: _Maybe back when it came out. But it seems so campy now._

Sam: _As for more recs… you probably know about MST3K. How about that corny vampire movie that's still in theaters? ;)_

Sam usually wasn't one to second-guess himself when it came to flirting (his special sight eliminated most of the uncertainty surrounding human interaction), but he wondered how Bucky might take that winking emoji. Was Sam coming on too strong?

Bucky sent back a reply: _Are you cashing in on your rain-check? ;)_

Sam probably didn't need to worry whether Bucky liked him.

#

They met at the Nitehawk again on Monday night. Sam had sent Bucky a text an hour ago with the name of the movie, the showing time, and said that he would provide the snacks. Bucky found Sam in the dark again and sat beside him. There were a few other people in the front of the theater, but Sam and Bucky had the back rows to themselves. True to his word, Sam had a bucket of popcorn on his lap and a large soda in the cupholder between his seat and Bucky's own.

"Hey, stranger," Sam said, flipping a piece of popcorn into his mouth. "You like extra butter?" He offered the bucket.

"You already know me so well." Bucky thanked him and grabbed a few pieces.

"What brings you to a late-night bad movie?" Sam asked, and it was like their first meeting all over again, but with a comfort that came from familiarity.

"Keeping a tradition," Bucky said, repeating Sam's answer from the last time they did this.

Sam grinned, as though aware that their dialogue had deeper meaning now. He took some more popcorn and said, "My buddy Riley and I… We had this tradition where we'd go to midnight movies together. It started when we were teenagers, just old enough to get into the R-rated ones. Then we got older, and we started dating. So we changed it up; each time, one of us would get there first, buy the snacks, and get a seat, and the other would come find us. Like we were on a blind date or something."

"Like you did tonight," Bucky murmured.

Sam continued on as if he hadn't heard Bucky. Maybe he hadn't. The movie was pretty loud, and Bucky had trouble finding his voice. "Ever since he died, I've been keeping the ritual. I guess I've been hoping he might show up one of these days, like seeing him die was just a fucked-up dream I had."

Bucky's throat felt impossibly dry. He took a sip of the soda. "How did he…"

"We were flying a night mission, standard PJ rescue op. Nothing we hadn't done a thousand times before. An RPG knocked him out of the sky."

"Jesus…"

"Nothing I could do. Like I was up there just to watch." Sam was staring ahead at the screen, and Bucky thought he saw tears glistening in his eyes.

"Do you—do you talk about this at your sessions?"

"Oh sure. I've told the story plenty of times. Not the part about the movies, though. That seems"—Sam paused, searching for the word—"intimate, I guess. Something special between me and him."

"But you told me." _And reenacted it with me,_ Bucky thought but did not say.

"I trust you." Sam looked at him, and Bucky felt in his bones that this was a pivotal moment, a moment in which he ought to be brazen and kiss Sam. But, Christ, what if he'd read this all wrong? What if Sam had no romantic interest in him at all? There's a special kind of embarrassment reserved for people whose reach exceeds their grasp, so Bucky opted to smile and turn his head away like a total idiot. He wasn't in prime kissing shape anyway; his lips were greasy with fake butter, and he had popcorn flakes in his teeth.

If Sam was perturbed by Bucky's rejection, he didn't show it. They shared soda and popcorn while trading quips at the bad special effects and dialogue in the movie. Occasionally Bucky had time to think on things. Since Brock, Bucky always felt some degree of trepidation around people, but Sam was surprisingly easy to talk to. He wondered how that could be and came up with an answer: Sam never pushed. Bucky couldn't remember the last time Sam had asked him a question he didn't want to answer. Maybe during the first few minutes they met, but after that? Sam hadn't asked Bucky to share at the art therapy session, hadn't pushed for answers on what happened to him in Iraq or why he wore long sleeves and a glove on his left hand.

But at the same time, this made Sam appear incredibly confident. He never stammered or apologized for something innocuous, never seemed to feel an iota of awkwardness. It was as if he knew the right thing to say in every situation, while Bucky often felt like a tongue-tied teenager.

As the credits rolled, Bucky took out his vape pen. Now that he'd decided to ask the question, he needed a drag or two to calm his nerves. As smoke billowed out from his lips, he said, "How come you haven't asked me yet?"

"Asked you what?"

"Anything that might make me uncomfortable. Isn't that what therapy's all about: pushing at your comfort zone?"

Sam appeared to think that over. "That's not my style."

"Sounds like a cop-out answer to me."

For the first time, Sam looked unsure. He brought his legs down from the empty seat in front of him and sat upright. "You want the God's honest truth?"

"If you don't mind."

"I won't ask you to promise not to think I'm crazy, but just hear me out, okay?" This was the most nervous Sam had ever been around him, and it was fascinating. Bucky managed a nod, wanting Sam to continue. "I can see how people are feeling. They have colors around them, and those colors represent their emotions."

The idea that Sam had some kind of supernatural ability didn't surprise Bucky the way it probably should have. He supposed it explained everything about Sam's confidence, about why he never seemed nervous or unsure what to say. "What color am I?"

Sam's eyes widened, his brow creasing as though he was taken aback by how easily Bucky accepted his story. "Right now you're a weird grey-ish blue. Everybody's colors—or aura, I guess, if you wanna sound new age-y—blend in the center, but I can see each color that makes up the whole sort of floating around, if that makes any sense. You have yellow—which is new for you, I didn't see that the last couple times—pink, dark blue, light blue, and black. When they mix, they make up a slate grey."

"How do you know what the colors mean?"

"Experience, mostly. I could see the colors ever since I was a kid, but it took me a while to figure out what they mean. The internet's no help; you get a hundred different answers, and sometimes they're right about one color but totally wrong on another." Sam smiled at him, a little awed by whatever he saw on Bucky's face. "You don't think I'm trickin' on you?"

"Give a guy some time, and he can get used to anything," Bucky said with a shrug. "What else explains how you always know what to say?"

"Charm is a powerful thing."

"So is your little superpower. I wish we all had your little cheat sheet for human interactions."

"It's a blessing and a curse," Sam said gravely.

"How is it a curse? You go out on a date or to a job interview, and you know if the person likes you or not. You don't have to spend the whole time worrying or being embarrassed."

"But you're more aware of the pain of strangers, too. You can't turn a blind eye anymore or pretend everyone's getting on fine. Imagine being in the grocery store and seeing a little girl with the colors of fear and pain. You can't get her away from her father to ask if she's okay or even what her name is, because that right there's a one-way ticket to stranger danger. So you just let it go, but it stays with you. Now imagine seeing that sort of thing hundreds—no, thousands—of times throughout your life. Every time you ride the subway, you're slammed with everybody's emotions, and you can't help the people who need it."

Bucky shut his eyes, sobered. "Jesus."

"Like I said, it's a blessing and a curse."

They exited the theater, tossing the popcorn tub and the empty soda cup into the trash. Bucky wanted to hold Sam's hand; he looked like he would be warm and soft to the touch. But the hand nearest to Sam's own was Bucky's gloved hand, and even through the leather Sam would be sure to sense the metallic joints that lurked beneath. They made it outside, into the slight chill of the night air. Bucky asked, "What do my colors mean? Tell me what I'm feeling."

"Yellow means you're afraid of something—or someone. Dark blue says you're feeling guilty, ashamed…" Sam watched Bucky nod along. "I guess you're not afraid of _me_, 'cause the pink means fondness or happiness. Black represents pain. I still haven't figured out what the light blue means. I see it a lot, but I can't pin it down."

"Maybe it means that person has a secret," Bucky suggested. He stared at Sam as if challenging him to read his mind, but this gaze probably came off as flirtatious instead. "That's why you don't know, because people aren't in the habit of disclosing their secrets."

"You might be on to something, Bucks," Sam said with a smirk. Bucky liked how that nickname sounded in Sam's mouth. He wondered how Sam might sound saying _other_ things and visibly flushed.


	3. Chapter 3

3

Despite his impressive educational background, Bucky hadn't gone back to work since returning to Brooklyn. His career as a penetration tester (he still snickers when he says his job title) for various online companies had netted him a decent salary, and he'd been able to telecommute during his time in Moscow. He'd saved some money in a secret bank account (Brock often liked to steal Bucky's credit card when the mood struck, and changing his PIN would earn Bucky a few bruises) and was currently taking what he referred to as a sabbatical from the workforce.

Which was why he was asleep at one p.m. when his phone rattled against the night table. Bucky, a light sleeper, rolled onto his side and blindly fumbled for the device. He looked at the screen, squeezing one eye shut against the glare. Peggy had sent him a text: _You're coming to Steve's party, right?_

Still half-asleep, it took Bucky a moment to realize why Peggy was asking: this time last year he had missed Steve's birthday celebration. While he had spent the previous year in Russia with Brock, Bucky had tried his damndest to maintain contact with Steve and Peggy while keeping said correspondence underneath Brock's radar. He had talked with Steve via Skype, and had done so for quite a while until Brock fell into one of his "states," as he called them. "Why the fuck is your computer locked?" he'd shouted Bucky awake one morning after trying to snoop around on his laptop. "You got somethin' to hide from me? Is that it?" Bucky had protested that, no, he wasn't hiding anything, and that the encryption was meant to protect against hackers (Brock wasn't tech-savvy enough to know if that was an outright lie or not), but it had earned him a few wallops to the kidneys all the same. That was when Bucky began mailing postcards to Steve.

Bucky typed back: _Wouldn't miss it._

He hoped she wouldn't poke at that, because his throat locked up when he thought about explaining why he had missed last year, why he hadn't been able to call and wish Steve a happy birthday himself. But Peggy just sent back a smiley emoji, so Bucky assumed he was in the clear for now.

Steve usually hosted a backyard barbecue on his birthday for friends and family. His special day happened to fall on July 4th, which made the barbecue almost impossible to refuse, since it had morphed into a dual celebration. Steve would grill up juicy hamburgers and hot dogs, Peggy would make her delicious pasta salad and homemade key lime pie, and Bucky would bring a pot of his smoky barbecue beans (the only thing he could actually cook with any real finesse).

This, however, left the business of what sort of gift to give Steve. Steve had always been curiously difficult to shop for, even back when they were kids. He rarely dropped hints, and when he did the item was too expensive to buy without a payment plan. Bucky remembered quite a few shopping trips with Peggy over the years, both of them hurrying through malls and department stores to find the perfect gifts. Peggy was the only one able give Steve clothing as a present; Bucky had better luck with knick-knacks and (somewhat) gag gifts.

This was most likely a gift card kind of year. Before he could talk himself out of it, he asked Peggy: _Can I bring a plus one?_

Peggy: _The more the merrier!_

She was probably texting Steve right now with this juicy tidbit of gossip. Steve would no doubt size Sam up when they met, the way a father might before letting his daughter go to prom with her date. Peggy would play amateur detective right alongside her husband, and Sam would never want to hang out with Bucky or his weird friends again. Bucky didn't want his love life to become the subject of conversation, especially not when it took the focus off Steve.

Maybe Sam wouldn't even come. He must have had better things to do on July 4th. Maybe his family was hosting a party of their own. Did Sam _have_ family? That seemed like something Bucky should know, but he had never asked, because Sam might reciprocate and poke at the hornet's nest of Bucky's past. Bucky wasn't ready to expose those scars, and if it meant not learning about Sam's own history, well, that would have to do.

But it would be inconsiderate to not at least _invite_ Sam. Just because he was probably busy didn't mean he wouldn't appreciate the thought. Bucky lifted his phone and typed out a text to Sam: _Hey, a friend of mine is having a bbq on Friday. Wanna come?_

Sam's answer came much faster than Bucky expected. The vibration of the phone against his hand startled him. _Hell yeah I do_, Sam had written. _Should I bring something?_

Bucky: _If you want. Nothing too heavy, maybe just cole slaw or something._

Sam: _I know just what to bring. :)_

Bucky wasn't sure if that was a good sign.

#

The barbecue started at six-thirty Friday night, but Bucky arrived early. The Rogers' backyard patio was small and utilitarian with its outdoor kitchen, dining and seating areas, and fire-pit. The food platters sat inside on the kitchen table, where guests could fill their plates without the hassle of flies or mosquitos swarming over the food. While Steve worked the grill, Bucky helped Peggy set out paper plates and plastic utensils, as well as fill the cooler with ice, beer, and sodas.

"You said you were bringing a friend?" Peggy asked.

"He should be able to find the place," Bucky said. They were tiptoeing around the subject of Bucky dating again post-Brock, and they both knew it. "His name's Sam. He's laid-back. We met at the movies."

"I'm excited to meet him," Peggy said, but she didn't sound like it. The hint of steel in her voice made Bucky uncomfortable.

"He, uh, he said he's bringing food. Just a side dish, I think… I _hope_."

The doorbell rang, causing Bucky to drop the Cokes in his hands. The cans landed in the icy cooler with a crunching splat. "Maybe that's him," Peggy said, smoothing out her skirt as she made her way to the door.

"Why don't I get that for you?" Bucky hurried to his feet.

Peggy gave him a look. "I'm barely two months along. I'll be fine." She reached the door before Bucky did and pulled it open. Sam stood there holding a pot of something that might have been chili—Bucky couldn't tell from beneath the steamy glass lid.

"Howdy, ma'am," Sam said, and if he were wearing a hat he would have tipped it then. "I come bearing gifts."

"You must be Sam. Go on and set that on the table there." Peggy showed him inside and shut the door behind him. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you. Bucky and I were just talking about you."

Sam shot Bucky a sly look as he set the pot on the table. "No wonder my ears were burning."

Bucky felt a flush creep up his neck. "What's in the pot?" he asked, hoping to steer the conversation in a less embarrassing direction.

"Hash and rice." Sam opened the lid just enough to let the savory smell of pork, onion, and spices rise into the air. "A South Carolina staple."

"I didn't know you were Southern," Bucky said.

"My mama was, at least. And she always won the blue ribbon at the State Fair for her pies."

"If there's one thing I can't resist, it's a homemade pie," Peggy said. "Maybe you could share those recipes sometime. But first"—she pulled out a chair and sat—"why don't you tell me a little about yourself?"

"What is this, twenty questions?" Bucky asked with a forced laugh.

Sam simply took out a chair and sat next to Peggy at the table. "Alright, well, I'm an air traffic controller at LaGuardia. I served two tours of duty in the Air Force as a pararescue airman. I offer art therapy at St. Joseph's for veterans with PTSD. I'm a movie buff, and I like birds."

The bird thing was news to Bucky. Sam hadn't mentioned it before.

"St. Joseph's? Are you religious?" Peggy asked.

Sam said, "I suppose I am, when you get right down to it. It's how I was raised, though I don't put much stock in the ritual parts of religion. But I believe in God, if that's any consolation."

Peggy abandoned her line of questioning for now and let Sam load his plate with food. Outside, Steve had grilled up quite a few hamburgers and hot dogs. He grinned when he noticed Sam and Bucky entering the backyard. "Well, hey! You must be Sam." Steve extended a hand, and Sam balanced his plate one-handed so he could accept the shake. "Any friend of Bucky's is a friend of mine."

"Glad to hear it."

Sam and Bucky each took a hot dog and a burger, then sat at the nearest table to eat. Steve chatted Sam up while he cooked the rest of the meat, asking about Sam's job as an air traffic controller and his time in the Air Force. Sam volleyed back questions about Steve's line of work and his wildest arrest stories. Steve was always happy to share the moments in his career as a police officer that could have ended up on Cops had a camera crew been filming. Bucky knew them all by heart: the man who vandalized his neighbor's house with pickles, the guy with a drawn-on goatee who robbed a gas station, the woman who poured hot sauce into her cheating husband's eyes. Sam, hearing these tales for the first time, shared a couple hearty laughs with Steve.

While Steve's line of questioning wasn't as direct as Peggy's had been, Bucky knew Steve was sizing Sam up. If Peggy was Bad Cop, then Steve was playing the role of Good Cop, lulling Sam into a comfortable state with easy questions and laughs. Because Steve was still a cop at heart, even while he wore an apron that read "Mr. Good Lookin' is Cookin'." This begged the question: what the hell was Steve looking for? A tell-tale sign that Sam was an axe-murderer? Brock had never been interrogated like this, primarily because Brock had never _met_ Steve or Peggy; due to their long-distance relationship, Bucky hadn't had the opportunity to bring Brock to the Rogers' house for dinner.

Sam, however, used his mood-reading powers to his advantage; he handled the questions like a seasoned pro, and if he stretched the truth it was impossible to tell. He was just so _smooth_, and even Steve fell for Sam's casual charm.

When the grilling was finished, Steve sat with them and talked about how Peggy had taken him to see Hamilton on Broadway a few years back, which he had thoroughly enjoyed. Bucky shared anecdotes about the various concerts he'd attended over the years. Sam discussed his interest in paranormal sightings and his brief obsession with the X-Files. This inspired Bucky, three drinks to the wind, to open up about his taste in media.

"Sam, have you seen Mindhunter? It's fucking awesome. David Fincher's a genius when it comes to creating a crapsack world."

"Your recommendations have given me enough nightmares, thank you very much," Sam said with a smile. He turned to Steve. "Does he tell you to watch stuff that ends up being creepy as hell?"

Steve chuckled in commiseration. "I learned a long time ago not to listen to Bucky when it comes to entertainment. Our tastes don't overlap very often."

"Steve prefers movies that aren't in color," Bucky teased.

"That's a complete oversimplification," Steve said, as though Sam might have believed Bucky wholesale.

"Remember the late-night infomercials for those compilations of '50s songs? That kind of music is Steve's _jam_," Bucky said.

"I can buy that," Sam said. "But there's nothin' wrong with the oldies." He tossed Bucky a smile. "You can keep your angry white boy music." Steve laughed out loud, and Bucky just smirked at Sam. Sam rose from the table with his plate in hand. "Bucks, I'm going back for seconds. You want anything?"

Bucky said that he was just fine.

"While I'm up, where's the men's room?"

"First door on your left past the dining room," Steve said. Sam thanked him and slid open the patio door. Steve watched the door slide closed, then he said to Bucky, "I like him. He's good for you."

Bucky considered protesting Steve's notion that he and Sam were a couple but knew it would be no use. "Is that why you and Peggy went all third-degree with the questions? To see if he's boyfriend material?"

Steve pressed his lips into a hard line. "Can you blame us? After Brock, maybe somebody should look out for you."

Bucky's stomach was suddenly freezing, alarms going off in his head. "What do you mean, 'after Brock'?"

"He was a first-class bully. I saw it on your face when you came home from Moscow. You looked _relieved_."

"Relieved to see _you_," Bucky said, defensive, but he heard the weakness in his own voice.

"Sure, maybe that was part of it, but there was something else. You know, Peggy was the one who saw the signs, right around when you started sending the postcards. At first I thought your internet connection got cut off, and you were just trying to keep in touch. Or that you were moving and didn't want to leave a return address yet. Then I thought maybe international texting cost too much, so that's why you never went that route. But Peggy suspected this was all some kind of isolation technique on Brock's part. We couldn't understand why you wouldn't just send a plain old letter, or use a public computer to write an email. You, Mr. Tech Genius, couldn't figure out a way to communicate through technology?"

"That's not a lot of proof, Steve," Bucky said, willing his voice not to shudder as he spoke.

"I know it's not. And maybe my gut feeling wouldn't go very far in a court of law, but I know you, Buck. You wouldn't leave me without a way to get in touch unless you had a good reason."

Panic seized Bucky, strangling him of a response. Steve_ knew._

"If I'm wrong, why do you look scared?"

Bucky wanted to push away from the table and leave, but he understood that would confirm Steve's hypothesis and put him on the defensive. And Bucky would cause a rift, however small, in their friendship that he would later have to go through the embarrassing, laborious process of mending. It seemed the safer option was to remain here and see how things shook out.

As though sensing he'd struck a nerve, Steve said, "I won't ask for the gruesome details. But I think it's great that you're with someone who cares about you and has the ability to help you."

Bucky was still having considerable trouble digesting all of this. "You knew all this time… Did it change anything?"

"Should it?"

"Your best friend lets some dickhead use him as a punching bag, and maybe you start to look at him differently."

Steve's gaze hardened. "No way. You're still my best friend."

Bucky risked a glance at Steve and saw compassion, understanding, and love there. Yet he couldn't quite convince himself that Steve would maintain that love if faced with the full truth. Part of Bucky knew Steve would not turn away from him, but the other part—the part conditioned by Brock—warned him not to press his luck. Steve was, after all, an officer of the law, and policemen generally weren't too sympathetic to civilians who commited murder.

"I think I'm gonna be sick." Bucky pushed away from the table and hurried inside. He managed to make it to the master bathroom before nausea sank its claws into his stomach. He vomited, clutching the toilet bowl like a long-lost friend. When he was finished—he didn't know how much time had passed, hours or minutes—he wiped his mouth with a few squares of paper and hit the lever. He sat there on the tile floor, shaking all over, though he wasn't cold.

Fuck, Steve _knew._ He had looked up to Bucky ever since they were kids; what did it mean for Steve's admiration now that he knew Bucky let himself get knocked around for, what, exactly? The crime of being an amputee? Only in Brock's eyes was such a thing a crime. After he'd gotten used to his prosthetic, Bucky had decided that things were not so bad, that they could have been infinitely worse.

But it hadn't always been that way; lying in that hospital bed, everything hurt all the time, thanks to injuries from the pressure waves created by the explosion. His missing arm had itched and ached and burned. The pain had been a terrible blue-white nova that screamed for hours and never seemed to go silent, but what Bucky remembered most about those hazy weeks of his life was Steve in that hospital room, standing or sitting by the bed every time Bucky opened his eyes. "Please," Bucky had begged during a brief moment of clarity when his drugged, rattled brain was able to string words together. His hands clawed at the front of Steve's shirt, except only one hand had really been there; the other just felt like it was. "You gotta… The pain—It's too much. You don't—you don't know…" His cheeks were damp with tears. "It's like the end of the world."

Bucky had fallen back against the pillows—slumped, really—and shut his eyes in exhaustion. "I don't want to live like this."

"Can I get you anything?" Steve had asked dumbly.

"Go find the supply closet. They keep the drugs there. Bring back everything you can carry. Doesn't matter what. It'll get the job done." Steve had gasped, but no sound left his mouth. He could not have formed words even with a gun to his head. An eerie desperation had shadowed Bucky's face. "Please, Steve. Help me. Just get me the pills. Whatever happens after you leave the room is between me and God. It's not on you."

The room had been quiet, its only soundtrack the rhythmic beep of machinery and the faint creak of the chair as Steve leaned closer. A nurse had glided by outside, and Steve stiffened up like a student caught stealing glances at his classmate's test paper. "I can't," he'd murmured, shaking his head. "I won't do that to you, Buck. I'm with you to the end of the line, remember?"

"This is the end," Bucky had said. But it wasn't. One month later, he had been equipped with a state-of-the-art prosthetic and had been moved to a physical rehabilitation center. It was there that Steve met Peggy, who had served as Bucky's physical therapist.

A knock on the bathroom door startled Bucky, then Sam's voice sounded from the other side: "You alright in there, Bucks?"

Bucky said that he was and rose on shaky legs. He grabbed the bottle of Scope from the medicine cabinet. He swished around a mouthful and spit into the sink. "I can't hold my liquor like I used to," he said once his breath was minty-fresh. He opened the door, and a look of concern crossed Sam's face. "I just need to lie down until the world stops spinning." Sam caught him around the waist. His body was warm and solid, and Bucky felt desire rise hot within himself.

"C'mon, I got you," Sam said. Bucky slung an arm around Sam's shoulders and allowed himself to be led out. On another occasion, Bucky would have enjoyed Sam pressed so close. Maybe he enjoyed it a little bit, but not as much as he could have under normal circumstances. He slid onto the bed as Sam lowered him there.

"How'd you find me?" Bucky asked.

"Steve told me you were up here."

"What else did he tell you?"

"That you put out on the first date," Sam said with a friendly, teasing grin.

"Is that what this is? A date?"

"You tell me."

Bucky scrubbed a hand over his face. He wasn't drunk, but he felt woozy and nauseous all the same. "I don't know. I like spending time with you. You make me happy. But I'm not—I'm not good enough for you," he said, giving voice to the part of Brock that lived in his head like a tumor.

"Why don't you let me be the judge of that?"

Bucky spread his arms, as if making a snow angel on the duvet. "Look at me. I'm not exactly the poster child for stability."

Sam made a_ pshaw_ sound. "Dude, this is nothing. You think you're the first person to drink too much at a party?"

"So I haven't completely fucked up my chances with you?"

"Nah, you're all good. You wanna just chill here for a bit?"

Bucky found it oddly touching that Sam bothered to ask what he wanted, then felt ashamed for valuing such a basic tenant of human kindness. "Yeah, a couple minutes would be good."

Sam understood and slipped out of the room. After some time, Peggy knocked and let herself in. "Are you alright?"

"About as good as you'd expect," Bucky said.

Peggy shut the door behind her as she approached the bed where Bucky lay prostrate. "What happened wasn't your fault," she said as she sat beside him; Bucky sensed she wasn't talking about his conversation with Steve. "I need you to believe that. You didn't make Brock who he is." _Was_, Bucky wanted to correct her but held his tongue. "All that self-blame comes with being an abuse survivor. But it's not true; that's just how he manipulated you into staying."

"Steve said you figured it out," Bucky said, trying to steer the conversation away from his culpability or lack thereof.

"I couldn't be certain. I just had a gut feeling. I've seen a few relationships like the one you had with Brock. He caught you at a low point in your life, sent you gifts, probably threatened you with ultimatums if you didn't do what he wanted, and isolated you. I wish I had seen it sooner. I think the biggest clue was how your attitude seemed to do a complete turnaround when you came back to the states. Your smile reached your eyes. When Steve told that pickle story for the first time, you laughed, really laughed like I hadn't heard in ages."

By the time Bucky had realized what a mess he'd been in, it had seemed too late. During his last year with Brock, they had lived in a Moscow apartment building and, to combat the high cost of living, Bucky was required to work from his computer. For a while Bucky had welcomed the stipulation; as a stranger in a strange land, he didn't know the language and was terrified to step into a world in which he could not communicate.

In time the noose had tightened, and Bucky began to feel like a caged animal. His mind had started to slip a little, and he took up smoking as an outlet for the stress that had piled onto him. He signed up for an online Russian language course, determined to gain some semblance of control over his own life. Once he'd had a rudimentary grasp of the language, he began to leave the apartment while Brock was at work. He had ventured to the coffee shop at the end of their street, then eventually to a nearby confectionery, then the market, and a movie theater for a mid-day matinee. He had continued to explore the city each day, and Brock had been none the wiser.

One evening while lying in bed, Brock had been watching a documentary on his laptop. The film dove into the gruesome murders of Alexander Pichushkin, also known as "The Chessboard Killer." Pichushkin committed most of his 60 murders in Bitsevski Park, which Bucky had felt was uncomfortably close to their own apartment building. Brock rarely used headphones with his computer, so Bucky had been forced to hear the morbid details of the slayings; not that Bucky minded a little true crime every now and then (he was deeply fascinated with the Zodiac murders), but it wasn't something he wanted to hear about right before bed.

"See how lucky you are?" Brock had said after Pichushkin was described as murdering a homeless man by bashing his head repeatedly with a hammer. Brock had patted Bucky's arm, and Bucky felt his skin crawl. "If you were out there all by yourself…" Brock shook his head. "There's some sick people out there."

Bucky had no doubt about that.

"I think it's providence you found someone like Sam," Peggy said. "Steve can run a background check on him if you want, just in case."

"You say that like he won't run one anyway." Bucky snorted.

"If you were in his shoes, wouldn't you?"

Bucky knew that he would.

#

Bucky rejoined the party a few minutes later, much to Sam's delight. Sam could tell Bucky was tipsy; his aura kept changing, colors blooming and fading with regularity, but pink rose above them all. Bucky seemed like the kind of drunk who slings an arm over your shoulder and tells you how much he loves you, man. Which, if Sam was honest with himself, wouldn't be such a bad deal.

Over the next few hours, they ate and drank while chatting with Steve and his friends. Sam was introduced to Captain Nick Fury, a stern-looking bald man with an eyepatch, who served as Steve's superior at the police department. Alongside Fury was Sergeant Maria Hill, an excellent markswoman with a talent for training new personnel. Fury raved over the hash and rice Sam brought, and they talked about their favorite homestyle dishes. According to Fury, his mother's pulled pork recipe was the epitome of indulgence, at which Bucky gave kudos to Peggy's banana pudding. Sam mentioned that he could make a mean batch of pancakes.

"The secret is a combination of buttermilk, baking soda, and baking powder," Sam added. "Be a patient flipper and don't overmix, and you've got a winner every time."

While most of the guests trickled back inside to say their goodbyes, Sam and Bucky sat on the deck watching the sunset. As the sun sank below the horizon, it left a flush of cotton-candy colors trailing in its wake. Bucky took a few hits off his vape pen, but overall his aura was stable—or at least back to its familiar hues.

"I hope you had a good time," Bucky said, trails of vapor leaving his mouth as he spoke. "My little freakout not withstanding."

"I like a little vulnerability in a man."

"If that's what you want to call it."

"I had a good time," Sam said, answering Bucky's initial question. "And I'm glad you're feeling better."

"I wasn't drunk," Bucky scoffed. "I was humiliated. Steve told me he knew one of my worst, darkest secrets. And it doesn't change how he thinks of me at all."

"Should it?"

"I thought it would," Bucky said, which wasn't necessarily an answer.

"Why does it bother you that it doesn't change anything for Steve?"

Bucky seemed to struggle for an answer. He took another hit off the pen and spoke slowly. "Because it means my fundamental belief over the last few years might be wrong."

"Which is?"

"That I deserve every bad thing that happens to me."

"I'm in Steve's corner. You're a good man. The colors don't lie," Sam said. "Unless you're drowning kittens or spray-painting racial slurs on the sides of buildings, you're probably not as bad as you think."

Bucky gave this some thought, then took another drag. "Do you believe there's such a thing as justifiable homicide?"

"Maybe I wouldn't go that route myself, but I can't say I'd blame a parent for going after someone who hurt their kid. Or something like that." Sam watched Bucky's face. "And we're both ex-military, where the basic premise is 'shoot the other guy.' I guess my credo is 'do no harm, but take no shit.'"

Bucky's aura seemed to brighten at this, as if Sam had perhaps lifted a small weight off his shoulders.


	4. Chapter 4

4

Still a little embarrassed about his behavior at Steve's barbecue, Bucky opted to skip the weekend sessions of Sam's art therapy. Someone else needed that space more than Bucky did, and PTSD was the least of his problems.

Monday evening found him on his daily run through Prospect Park. Sunset was his favorite time to run; it was a time when the air cooled, when the breeze blew loose strands of hair across his face and dried the sweat on his brow. He slowed to a stop at a water fountain and drank in thirsty gulps, then he checked his phone for the time. What caught his eye wasn't the large numbers on the screen but a missed text message from Sam: _Haven't heard from you since the party. You ok?_

Bucky immediately felt guilty for ghosting Sam. He hadn't _wanted_ to, but it seemed like the best way to handle his shame at the time. And maybe he was somewhat afraid of Sam's ability, because if Sam could read Bucky's moods, what else could he read? Was he, like Peggy and Steve, all too aware of Bucky's secrets but pretending otherwise?

Bucky's thumb hovered over the screen before typing: _Sorry, been busy_. This wasn't entirely a lie—he'd spent most of the weekend watching television and re-reading one of his favorite horror novels. He added: _You wanna grab a late lunch sometime? I know a good taco joint._

Sam texted back: _Sí. That's Spanish for yes. Name a time and a place._

#

Bucky's dreams that night were, to say the least, disquieting. Most nights he would relive the day of the murder with brutal clarity; these recollections were so visceral he could taste the blood that spurted into his mouth when he stabbed Brock to death. These new dreams were less violent, but no less discomforting in their nature. In them, Bucky found himself in surreal landscapes, sometimes alone and sometimes with Sam. The one that lingered most took place in a neon lounge area, decorated with sheer white curtains, potted trees, and shimmering surfaces. Bucky and Sam sat in round chairs that looked like something out of a science-fiction movie. In front of them was a television screen playing a VHS of Say Anything—one of Steve's favorite movies.

Sam lay back with his legs stretched out. An open box of pizza sat between the two of them, its little plastic tripod tipped over in an empty plot of cardboard. Bucky reached out to grab it, intrigued by the small device, and found he was holding his vape pen. That must have been why the room smelled like strawberry smoke, why Bucky felt so at ease here despite not knowing where—or when—he was.

Sam looked over at him. "It could be like this all the time, y'know. Just say the words."

_What words, _Bucky wondered, but he knew. "I can't," he said instead.

"Don't bullshit me, Barnes," Sam said with care. "In the words of Cyndi Lauper, I see your true colors shining through."

Now Bucky saw them too: pink, dark blue, light blue, and black, the same colors Sam had seen in him before. The swirls of color encircled him like flames, clashing against the neon blues and greens of the room. "Then what are _you_ waiting for? Why does it have to be me?"

"Take back your damn life. That's how you got away from Brock, right? So why are you sittin' around waitin' on the future to bail you out?"

On some level, Bucky was aware that this was a dream, because in the real world Sam didn't know about Brock. This acknowledgment of the illusion gave him enough courage to say, "I'm really not in a position to handle rejection right now."

Sam scoffed. "Dude, we both know that's not gonna happen. You're afraid of somebody actually treating you right."

"Why would I be afraid of that?"

"I'm not a mind-reader," Sam said, like he was offended Bucky assumed he had such a power. "But, hey, while you're here, why not stick around and enjoy yourself?"

When Bucky woke up in the dark, he spent a long time thinking. He understood what he must do by the time morning came around.

#

The next evening, Sam met Bucky at a blink-and-you'll-miss-it taqueria crammed into a brownstone on 4th Avenue. Bucky sat alone at a table near the back of the small eatery. He had a few small trays of tacos, rice and beans in front of him, as well as a glass-bottle Coke. Bucky smiled when he saw Sam. It was the kind of look that turned Sam's heart into a rubber ball, bouncing around in his chest. He wanted to reach out and touch Bucky's stubbled cheek.

"Started without me, huh?" Sam joked as he took the stool across from Bucky. Bucky's aura had changed again, now predominately pink, yellow, and ice blue. The colors were almost pulsing; Sam knew this to be indicative of intense emotion, usually when the subject was under the influence of drugs or alcohol. Whether Bucky had imbibed any alcohol tonight Sam wasn't sure.

"Couldn't help myself." Bucky handed Sam a menu. "Get whatever you want. It's on me."

After Sam had placed his order and had his own Coke in front of him, Bucky said, "I have to talk to you about something. A few things, actually. You might not want to know me anymore after it's all said and done, and I'll understand that."

"Bucks, I won't—"

"Just hear me out," Bucky interrupted, and Sam did so. "Steve knows a lot of my secrets, but there's one I haven't told anyone. I like you a lot, so if I'm ever going to talk, it has to be now—before things ever get serious. You get that, don't you?"

Sam nodded. Reading between the lines, he understood that Bucky seemed ready to acknowledge his feelings. This secret, whatever it was, was a last-ditch effort to scare Sam away. A litmus test of fortitude for a potential partner.

Bucky poked at his rice with a fork. "Steve and Peggy asked me to be the godfather of their baby. I guess me saying what I'm about to tell you is my way of preparing for how I'm going to tell them. I've kept this shit locked inside my head for years, and any night where I don't have nightmares is a good one. Maybe that sounds like PTSD to you—and maybe it is—but I have a feeling it's something else. A poison inside me. And maybe there might be some relief in telling it." He took a few bites, steeling himself, or giving Sam time to digest this portentous preamble.

Sam's trio of tacos arrived, and as he ate, Bucky talked: "I introduced Steve and Peggy by getting my left arm blown off by a car bomb. Peggy was my physical therapist. Every day at the rehab hospital, she would come into my room like a drill sergeant and force me to do exercises. I wasn't only adjusting to being short an arm; getting thrown into the air by a bomb blast and recovering in a hospital bed for weeks turns your muscles to jelly. I had to learn how to walk again. Three times a day—morning, noon, and night—I had to haul myself out of bed, down the hall and back again. Then there were the exercises." Bucky shuddered in remembrance. "Boot camp was a breeze compared to that, even with the extra Vicodin I got before each session.

"Anyway, the VA paid for a top-notch prosthetic. My surgeon—Dr. Stephen Strange, out of Metro-General Hospital—called in an expert in the field of prosthetic engineering. Shuri, I think her name was. After the surgery, I woke up with this." Bucky removed the black leather glove from his left hand, revealing the steel underneath. The hand, complete with fully articulated fingers, looked more like something out of a comic book than any prosthetic Sam had seen before.

"Nice hardware," Sam said with his mouth half-full. He had expected the glove had been hiding some kind of scarring or shrapnel damage instead. "You think this Shuri might make something like that for other vets? I know a bunch of people who could use some upgrades."

"I don't see why not," Bucky said, looking somewhat flustered. Clearly that wasn't the reaction he'd anticipated from Sam. "You wouldn't know it from the way I am now"—Bucky chuckled to himself—"but I was a mess back then. I'm sure you've heard all the stories—depression, drug addiction, suicide. I never got too deep in the latter two, but I did come close. What really affected me was the depression. Call me prejudiced if you want, but I think we treat disabled people differently than we treat ourselves in the same condition. We look at them and say, 'Maybe they get along just fine that way, but I couldn't.' And for a while, I really couldn't, not because it made my life harder, but because I couldn't imagine not being rejected because of my arm. I saw repulsion in every face, even if it wasn't really there. And that made me feel even worse, because who the fuck was I to feel sorry for myself?"

"All those feelings are perfectly natural," Sam said. "There isn't a one-size-fits-all experience." Now he understood Bucky's fascination with body horror flicks.

"I wish someone had told me that back then," Bucky said. "Maybe I would have believed it. But I sank further into my own misery. I went back to school, got my degree, and threw myself into work. Steve and Peggy were getting closer, and I didn't want to bother anyone with my bullshit. Maybe I would have come out of it eventually, but then Brock came along. And when he did, I was fucked."

Bucky told Sam how he'd met Brock Rumlow at the Knotfest music festival six years ago, about how Brock would send him gifts after a fight, about how it was always Bucky going to see him and not the other way around. He talked about how Brock had slapped him in the passenger seat of his Hummer on their first real date, about the move to Moscow. Bucky closed his eyes and took a sip of his Coke.

He ate a few bites, as though the food provided him with the energy to continue; Sam could see in Bucky's aura that talking about this was draining him. "Brock liked to stub his cigarettes out on my skin while we laid in bed," Bucky continued. "He didn't like looking at my scars, so he usually made me keep my shirt on when we fucked. It was always fucking with him—in all the time I knew him we never made love. But towards the end he had a cruel fascination with my prosthetic. He would dig his fingernails into the scar tissue where the shoulder plates fuse to my skin. It hurt like a mad bastard, and when I cried out Brock would laugh. 'You like a little pain, Barnes?' he'd say, even though I was jerking and twisting underneath him, trying to get away. Every time, I was terrified he was going to rip the thing right off, and I'd be helpless."

Bucky's speech was slow and careful, as though he was struggling to put his thoughts in order. He scarfed down half a taco and hurried on, telling Sam about the claustrophobic nature of their relationship in Moscow, about the postcards he'd sent to Steve. "I started to slip a few cogs near the end." He looked at Sam. "This is the worst of it coming up. I hope you had your fill," he said, referring to the remaining food on Sam's trays.

"I've got a strong stomach," Sam told him. And, in truth, he did. He had heard a great deal of horrifying stories, most taking place in wartime, and Sam had the ability to detach and analyze things coldly. As long as Bucky was able to keep himself together—and it seemed that he was, at least so far—Sam wasn't in danger of losing his lunch.

"Suit yourself," Bucky said with a shrug. "Anyway, the worst part begins with a morning piss, as most stories do." He tried a smirk, but it wasn't happening. "There was bright red in the bowl that morning. Brock had been working on my kidneys for the last few months, so much that I was almost used to seeing blood when I took a leak, but this time was different. It was like the real me was screaming and banging his fists on the glass that separated him from this diminished, shitty version of me that Brock created. All of a sudden I was angry, embarrassed, grieving and hateful all at once. Whatever spell Brock had put on me was lifted just long enough for me to see sense. Steve always said he didn't like bullies, and Brock was a bully if you ever saw one. A good man didn't wallop your kidneys because you were late cooking dinner. A good man didn't shout at you: 'I ask you to do one goddamn thing for me, Barnes! I come home from a long day's work, and all I want is a hot meal on the table. Is that too much to fucking ask?' And a good man didn't move you across the world to keep you isolated from a support system.

"I stared at that red swirl in the bowl for a long time. That was when I knew I had to get away from him, and if killing him was the only way, then that was how it had to be." Bucky looked at Sam with haunted eyes. "Maybe he wouldn't kill me, but he would kill what was _in_ me, if he hadn't already. Do you understand that?"

Sam said that he did. From the terror in Bucky's voice, Sam knew this was something Bucky had carried for a long while.

"But some little part of me was still afraid," Bucky went on, "because I thought there had to be another way. I thought I could just leave the country while Brock was at work. But that would mean a lifetime of never feeling safe again. I read somewhere that I'd be in the greatest danger during the first few weeks after leaving him. I'd have to change my name, my address, my phone number, email address, and even that wouldn't guarantee that I'd be safe. I'd have cut Steve and Peggy out of my life entirely; they'd be the first people Brock went to in order to find me. Steve wouldn't give me up, but what if Brock threatened Peggy? If he tried to bargain with Steve—her life for my location—I knew I wouldn't come out on top. And I didn't _want_ to. I'd never forgive Steve if he let Peggy die for my stupid ass.

"I knew living like that would be another prison Brock built for me. I had to kill him. There were knives in the kitchen. I could grab a butcher-knife and slice his throat when he got close enough." Bucky's hands shook as he lifted another taco to his mouth. He needed the energy to continue. "I watched enough crime shows to know not to go overboard with the stabbing. Lots of stab wounds means it's personal, which would get investigators looking into Brock's personal life. From there, it wouldn't take long for them to find me. I thought about taking some of his expensive stuff, making it look like a robbery. But by the time the police identified me—if they ever did—I'd be back in the states, and the US doesn't have an extradition treaty with Russia. All I had to do was make it on the plane.

"While I was thinking about all this, Brock started banging on the bathroom door. 'Hurry the fuck up, Barnes!' I made my decision before the toilet tank refilled. When I got out, he grabbed the front of my shirt and slammed me against the wall. One of my few prized possessions—a framed Metallica album signed by Kirk Hammett—fell off the wall and broke. 'You wanna tell me what the fuck this is?' he asked, then he reached into his back pocket and brought out a Metro Transport card. I thought I was dead right there. I had thrown the card away the day before after it expired, buried it really deep in the trash. Never in a million years did I expect him to dig through the garbage, but I guess he suspected something. I told him I didn't have a car—which was entirely his fault, but I knew enough to keep my mouth shut about that—so how was I supposed to buy our groceries?

"'Your legs aren't broken! The nearest market is a five-minute walk away! What did I tell you about leaving this apartment?'

"'Only for groceries and emergencies,' I told him.

"'And why?'

"'Because it's not safe,' I said, but it was a lot safer out there than in his apartment, that's for sure.

"He looked at the card again and threw it on the ground. 'That's a thirty-day pass. How many times were you out? And _don't_ lie to me.' His grip tightened, and I could smell the vodka-spiked coffee on his breath. It didn't matter what number I gave, but I still told him the truth: about once a day. And that was just the pass he knew about.

"A dark look came over his face then, like all humanity had left him. 'You'd better not be seeing someone else,' he said. 'All I ever did was provide for you and talk to you and send you gifts and give you a chance to live in one of the biggest, best cities in the world. If screwing around on me is the thanks I get, you'd better watch your back.' And his eyes… God, they were—" Bucky stopped, rubbed a hand over his face, then he chuckled. "Remember how Quint describes the shark in Jaws? 'Lifeless eyes, black eyes, like a doll's eyes. When he comes at ya, doesn't seem to be livin'… until he bites ya.' That's what looking at him was like.

"I asked him if he was going to kill me. He said, 'No, I don't think I will. But the jury's out on whoever you've been fucking. And I'll make it look like you did it. An unstable war vet kills his lover in an argument. Not the first time that's happened.'

"I couldn't help my smartass nature, but I think part of me knew I had to make him mad before I could do it. I said, 'It wouldn't be the first time an innocent person took the fall for some nutjob's crime.' And his hand whipped across my face so fast it surprised me even though I knew it was coming. I still remember that thin spatting sound his hand made against my cheek. I mouthed off to him some more and earned myself a fist square in my stomach. Having him hit me made it feel more like self-defense, and that's how it had to feel in order for me to go through with it.

"While I was doubled over and gasping for air, I could tell that was my only chance. I had to get into the kitchen to get the knife. So I covered my mouth with a hand and made a retching sound like was gonna puke. He hated vomit, and he wouldn't want it all over him or the floor—though he'd make me clean it up if it did. Just like I thought, he called me a pussy and let me go. I ran into the kitchen, and I guess I had to puke after all, 'cause everything in my guts came up in a rush. I turned on the water to wash out the sink and buy myself a little more time. If he thought I was still puking he wouldn't watch, and when I looked I saw he had turned away. I pulled open the silverware drawer and grabbed the biggest knife I could find."

Sam wiped his forehead with a napkin, suddenly aware he was sweating. As Bucky spoke, the ice blue in his aura began melting away, as if each word dissolved it.

"I hid the knife behind my back and switched off the faucet as I moved toward him—you didn't leave the water running too long under Brock's roof, not if you knew what was good for you. I guess he figured I was done being sick by then, because he turned around and fucking smirked at me, like he was watching his favorite child scribble on the walls with crayons. 'What have you got there, Barnes?' he sneered at me. 'A knife? I can tell you already you don't have the guts. Hand it over and maybe I won't whup you too bad.'

"I think the very last thing he expected was for me to come at him and stick the knife in his throat. The noise he made"—Bucky shuddered—"was like a wet sucking sound through a straw. A death gurgle. I pulled the blade through his neck, just to make sure the job was done right. When I ripped the knife out, blood went everywhere. I could taste it in my mouth, and that almost made me throw up again, but I kept it down. He laid there bleeding for a while, and I watched until his body stopped twitching. It was awful, worse than you could imagine. When I was sure he was dead, the part of my mind that came up with the idea in the first place seemed to take over. I was shaking, but inside I was calm. I knew the things I had to do, and I knew I had to be careful. I didn't think it was worth the risk of getting caught trying to dump the body. I wiped my fingerprints off the knife and put it in his hand. Maybe they'd buy a suicide. I burned my bloody clothes in the fireplace, and I cleaned up with a rag I threw in the fire too. If I took a shower or washed my hair in the sink, they might find traces of blood with Luminol."

Something about that particular part of the story struck Sam as a kind of horrifying, impressive intelligence.

"I took the Metallica album and threw the frame away. I picked up the Metro card he dropped and threw that away too. I packed up everything I had—about two suitcases' worth—and left. I was nervous about being seen on camera at the Metro, so I took an Uber to the airport. I bought a ticket for the next available flight to New York. Within a few hours, I was in the air. I drank a bunch on the plane to calm down, and I guess I fell asleep, 'cause when I woke up we were on the ground. I called Steve from JFK and asked if I could crash on his couch for a couple days. He sounded surprised to hear from me—it had been a while since we actually talked, so he probably was surprised—and said of course I could stay."

Sam felt like he'd gone five rounds with Mike Tyson. He didn't need to imagine how Bucky must feel recounting all of this; the pain on Bucky's face—the face of a man who has unwillingly regressed to an unhappier time—said it all. "Did he… I mean, did Steve ask what brought you home?"

"Sure, but he waited until we were face-to-face to do it. I think he was acting like a friend first and a cop second, though his instincts were still there. Peggy was all over me, hugging me and saying how glad she was to have me back; you would have thought I was a returning POW. Steve stayed pretty reserved through dinner, then while Peggy was cleaning up the kitchen, he took me into the living room and asked if I was alright.

"'Sure,' I said. 'Why wouldn't I be?' I think I sounded calm enough, but I knew what was coming.

"'I haven't heard from you in a couple months,' Steve said, 'except for the postcards. Then you show up out of the blue. Everything okay with Brock?'

"I'm not a praying man, but I prayed then. I prayed for the strength to lie to my best friend—to a _cop—_and have him believe me. I sold him a story about how Brock and I had a fight, how I found out he'd cheated on me, and that I left him. I think he knew what Brock was, but maybe he thought grilling me over the likes of Brock was a waste of energy. At the party last Friday, Steve let it slip that he and Peggy knew for a while that Brock was beating me. That's why I was so fucked up that day. I wasn't drunk, not any more than usual. I was just embarrassed… and afraid. Afraid of the pity they had for me since I came back, and afraid Steve would figure out what really happened. 'Cause Steve's been called to a lot of domestic disturbances and restraining order violations, and I'm sure he knows people like Brock don't let you leave."

Sam figured that was true; Steve was a smart guy, and he'd probably gained plenty of insight into twisted minds during his long tenure on the force. "Maybe he does know what really happened. And he still asked you to be the godfather of his future child, because he knows you'd do whatever it takes to keep that kid safe."

Bucky's colors had changed during the last few minutes; the yellow had almost faded entirely, while the ice blue had disappeared altogether. If ice blue represented secrets—as Bucky had suggested—he had cleansed his soul, and with this cleansing went most of the fear that came with harboring a dark hidden truth. "Maybe, and I guess I'll find out when I finally come clean."

"Cops like to look the other way when it comes to their pals. Or so I've heard." Sam gave a wry smile.

Bucky laughed despite himself. It was nice to hear that sound after such a draining conversation, and the adorable scrunch of his nose was irresistible. "Right now I'm more interested in what _you_ think."

"About what you told me? I think you're one hell of a bad-ass. You made it through all that and came out the other side mostly intact. A more qualified therapist could help you deal with the bad programming Brock put into your head." The corner of Bucky's mouth pulled into a lopsided grin at the wordplay. "And the trauma of what you've been through. But you're far from hopeless, Bucks. Just coming here and telling me all this is a huge step. I'm proud of you, man."

That must have been the last thing Bucky expected to hear, because his aura blazed pink. Sheepish, Bucky ducked his head, as if doing so would hide his emotions. A long piece of hair fell in front of Bucky's face, and Sam felt the nearly uncontrollable urge to brush it away. "We're still friends, right? Even after all the crap I just dumped on you?"

"Of course," Sam said. "I'm with you if you want me."

Bucky said that he did.


	5. Chapter 5

5

Bucky didn't miss the next therapy session; that week's theme was sewing, and Bucky was in the process of making a burp rag for the Rogers' upcoming baby. "A little early for the baby shower gifts, isn't it?" Sam asked during Friday's meeting when he passed by Bucky.

"Maybe," Bucky said with a shrug. "But I'm not really good enough at this to make anything else." Some of the other participants were making small plush animals, bandanas for pets, decorative pillows, soup bowl cozies, and more. The woman beside Bucky was hand stitching a little felt turtle.

"The point isn't to be good at it," Sam said.

"What can I say? I'm a perfectionist."

Later, while the other attendees filed out with their projects, Bucky called Sam over to his table. Bucky's aura flared with nerves as he asked, "Are you free tonight?"

Sam grinned. "I am. What'd you have in mind?"

"Netflix and chill?" That was a Red Alert Defcon I Flirt Alert, and Sam loved Bucky's confidence.

"My kind of night," Sam said. "How about my place? I'll make dinner."

"I can't say no to that."

#

Bucky arrived at Sam's apartment sharply at seven o'clock. He wore a short-sleeve t-shirt with the Slipknot logo across the front. His left hand was devoid of its usual black glove. Sam's smile widened. "You look amazing." He'd wanted to say something smooth, but Bucky's attire had taken Sam completely by surprise, and any witty pick-up lines had fallen out of his brain as if dropping into a black hole.

Bucky returned the smile, albeit looking sheepish. "Thanks. I thought you'd want to see…" He trailed off, but Sam understood.

"I'm glad you feel comfortable enough to show me." Sam invited him inside, and Bucky stepped through the threshold.

"Holy shit, it smells awesome in here."

"That's my jambalaya. Well, technically it's my grandma's recipe, but she won't mind if I take credit for it tonight." Sam led Bucky into the kitchen, where they both served themselves from the large pot of jambalaya. Sam had made a batch of biscuits, which were stacked like Jenga pieces on a dinner plate next to the butter dish.

"You made all this?" Bucky asked, as if he couldn't believe Sam had gone to the trouble of cooking for him.

"Sure did. You won't catch me serving frozen biscuits under my roof. And if we're being honest, I wanted to impress you." Sam had to force himself to turn his head and see how Bucky responded to this. Bucky's cheeks and his aura blazed pink.

"Why?"

"'Cause I like you?" Sam felt like an idiot for saying it so bluntly, but he thought Bucky needed to hear that.

Bucky smiled and glanced away. "Yeah, well, I think you're great."

They brought their bowls to the coffee table, where Sam had placed ice-cold soda cans a few minutes earlier. While Bucky got settled on the couch, Sam bent down by the television to dig through the drawers of DVDs and VHS tapes. "Remember those midnight movie series they used to show on TV? Stuff like MonsterVision and Up All Night? I used to watch the hell out of those back in the day. I taped as many of them as I could and ended up with a pretty sizable collection of tapes, complete with commercials and host segments. If we're talking quality, MonsterVision had way more to offer." Sam plucked a video tape out of one drawer, moved on to another. "They showed classics like Spaceballs, The Fly, Carrie, Child's Play, Shaft, and The Blues Brothers, to name a few. Up All Night was strictly B-movies through and through. In that spirit, we're stickin' with the weird and the wild."

"You really know my tastes," Bucky said, amused.

Sam selected Creepshow, a collection of short horror films ranging from disturbing to balls-to-the-wall terrifying. During the last segment where a man is swarmed by evil insects, Sam actually saw Bucky squirm.

"That's the part that scares you?" Sam teased. "Not the zombies or the dude turning into a grass-man, but the damn bugs?"

"They crawled out of his mouth!" Bucky said with emphasis.

"And his eyes, and his nose, and probably his ass too."

"You're not helping." Bucky drained the rest of his soda. Between the two of them, the jambalaya and biscuits had been thoroughly devoured. Bucky nudged his empty bowl aside with a socked foot so he could stretch his legs over the coffee table. He settled against the couch and sighed.

Sam rose and knelt by the television. "You up for another?" he asked, ejecting the VHS tape.

Bucky shook his head. "We should probably do other stuff together besides staring at a screen."

"Good point. You can help me clean up."

Bucky didn't protest; he seemed delighted to offer a helping hand as Sam gathered up their dishes and brought them to the sink. Bucky handed Sam each dish and utensil, which Sam rinsed thoroughly before loading into the dishwasher. Without prompting, Bucky borrowed a sponge and wiped down the counters while Sam got the dishwasher running. Sam had an awful feeling Bucky's efficiency with cleaning came from living under Brock's dictator-like regime.

"Not to be That Guy," Sam said when they were finished and Bucky was rinsing his hands under the faucet, "but how can you do that? Doesn't your arm, y'know, rust?"

Bucky huffed a laugh and switched off the water. "It's waterproof," he said, drying his hands on a kitchen towel. "Made out of some special material. I was pretty hazy when they explained it to me. But if this was real metal, I'd have a hell of a time taking a shower."

Sam moved closer. "You'd need someone in there to help you." He lifted an eyebrow, as though emphasizing the point. Bucky copied the gesture, and the corner of his mouth twitched upwards. Heat rushed through Sam, something like a fever. There was the idea of moving in and kissing him. How would Bucky react? Sam was no stranger to the signs of attraction; the way Bucky stole glances like a thief, the rise of blood in his cheeks when they looked at each other a little too long, the way Bucky would occasionally mirror Sam's gestures. Sam could see Bucky was attracted to him, could see it in his colors, but there was an underlying hesitation from his past experience with Brock. Once bitten, twice shy, as the saying goes.

It was Bucky who initiated the kiss. Both the speed and intensity of it took Sam by surprise. Soon it became more than kissing, evolving into its own kind of sex as Bucky's hands moved to either side of Sam's face. Sam could smell Bucky's cologne and taste the sweet soda pop still lingering on his tongue. Sam slipped his fingers through Bucky's hair before letting his hand rest across the back of Bucky's neck. Bucky made a soft noise, a long, dreamy moan into Sam's mouth. Sam shivered and ran his free hand along Bucky's left arm, the arm that had once been covered by flesh instead of metal. Bucky flinched at the touch, as though Sam had hurt him.

Their mouths parted while Bucky breathed in the space between them. Sam followed his gaze; Bucky was staring at Sam's hand casually laid over his left arm. "I want you, Bucks," Sam said, reassuring. "All of you—even the parts you don't."

Bucky kissed him again, but this time Sam was ready. He moved them backwards until Bucky's ass bumped against the kitchen counter. Bucky licked at the corners of Sam's mouth. Sam shivered, then his hand slipped beneath Bucky's shirt, his fingers tracing over hot bare skin. Sam's thumb brushed a nipple as his hand roamed. Bucky gasped around his mouth, and Sam's thumb began to move, stroking, rubbing over the nub in tender circles. Bucky swore and caught Sam's lower lip between his teeth. Bucky's aura burned pink like a fire, and Sam could feel the heat coming off those flames—or maybe that was his own body burning up under Bucky's hungry kisses and caresses. Stubble raked Sam's skin like sandpaper, and just the thought of that scrape between his thighs made his cock unbearably hard. Seeking friction, he pushed his erection against the hard muscle of Bucky's thigh.

Sam asked Bucky what he wanted. "Do what you want," came Bucky's reply, low and breathy at Sam's ear, his lips tickling the skin.

"What I _want_ is to make you happy," Sam said. "You get a say in that, y'know. Can't play the song if I don't know the key." After a moment of consideration (clearly Brock had never asked Bucky what he enjoyed in bed), Bucky said he wanted Sam on top so he could kiss him during the act—none of which Sam had a problem with.

The bedroom was at the end of the hall. Bucky and Sam fell onto the bed, their mouths and hands working in chorus as clothes came off. Sam grabbed the hem of Bucky's shirt and heard the hitch of breath that made him pause. Bucky glanced at Sam's hands, then at his face. Sam let go of the shirt, hoping this moment of hesitation and mistrust didn't change some vital element of their chemistry. Bucky kissed him again and laced his fingers behind Sam's neck while Sam ran a hand along Bucky's bare thigh. Bucky still wore his short-leg briefs, which were bright blue with pink triangles scattered across the fabric. They looked like underwear made out of a carpet swatch from a 1980's bowling alley.

Bucky seemed to notice Sam was staring at his flamboyantly-clothed crotch. "Aw, shit," Bucky groaned, snorting a laugh. "I forgot I was wearing these."

"You're fuckin' adorable, y'know that?" Sam said without a hint of malice. Underneath him, Bucky flushed red, his lips parted in a silent gasp. The pink of his aura glowed like neon against the dark duvet. "I'm serious. You act like a tough guy, but underneath it all you're scared of bugs, and you're wearing those Saved by the Bell lookin' things—"

Bucky laughed again. When he did he turned his head and scrunched up his nose, like he was trying to hide his face. It was both precious and heart-breaking, Sam thought, and he placed a hand on Bucky's cheek, tenderly turning his face towards Sam's own. His thumb brushed Bucky's lower lip, and Sam felt the hot fog of breath as Bucky exhaled. Bucky raised his hips to encourage him, and even through his own briefs the touch lit up Sam's nerves. The moonlight gleamed across Bucky's metal hand as he settled it on Sam's arm. His touch was cold but not unpleasant.

Now it was Sam's turn to shift his hips, and Bucky's grip tightened in response. He touched the side of Sam's face with that cool hand. Sam turned his head to kiss Bucky's metal palm. Bucky made a tiny sound in the back of his throat, something between a gasp and a sigh. Then Bucky removed his shirt in a slow peel that reminded Sam of a striptease. Bucky's entire left arm had been forged out of metal, spanning from his hand to his shoulder. And there, Sam saw it: the scar tissue Bucky had mentioned, etched in a crude path around the edges of the shoulder plate.

Sam felt compelled to put his mouth there, so he did. He traced the tip of his tongue along the line of scar tissue slowly enough to make Bucky sigh and sink deeper into the bed. "Oh," Bucky gasped, his hands slipping down Sam's sides, and hooking in the front of his briefs. Then Bucky pulled them down.

Sam went slow; he figured it had been a while for Bucky as well, and he didn't want to blow his load too soon like a chump. Bucky was tight and warm inside, his thighs gripping Sam's hips as they moved together. Sam kissed Bucky's wet mouth between his sighs and groans of praise. Bucky seemed to grow an extra pair of hands, his fingers skimming over Sam's shoulders, the base of his spine, his arms, the back of his neck. Sam didn't know how long they lasted before Bucky's moans grew louder and his hips began to crash against Sam in short hard thrusts, but it felt like quite a while, long enough for Sam to feel rubbed raw by the stubble on Bucky's jaw. Then Bucky began to moan that it was too much, that he was coming, oh God, oh Sam, yes, yes, yes, while his thighs and inner heat clutched Sam tighter, then they were both falling together. Bucky blazed pink as he took Sam along with him, and Sam shuddered through it until the flames went out.

Bucky's grip on Sam's back loosened, and his hands lay flat. He settled back against the pillows and gazed at Sam with wide-eyed satisfaction. "It hasn't been like that in forever," Bucky said, breathless. Sweat plastered long strands of hair to his forehead.

"I know what you mean," Sam said. He rolled onto the empty space beside Bucky, and the mattress might as well have swallowed him up. He took Bucky's metal hand in his own, linking their fingers together. "Felt nice, huh? To give in and stop fighting it?"

Bucky didn't ask _fighting what_ or seem confused about what Sam meant. He nodded slowly.

Sam said, "I'm just curious: why'd you kiss me? At the rate we were going, I always thought it'd be me who took that leap."

Bucky shrugged, then turned his head to look at Sam. His dark hair fell across the pillow. "I had a dream."

Sam arched an eyebrow. "Did it end like this?"

"No," Bucky said with a soft laugh. "It was pretty G-rated until you told me to stop being a chickenshit and make a move."

Sam guffawed. "Is that all it took? Damn, I wish I'd known that sooner."

"Well, that, and how you reacted when I unloaded my tragic backstory on you the other night."

"You thought I'd, what, run out screaming?"

"Something like that," Bucky joked. "No, I thought you'd just… look at me differently. I saw the way you looked at me before, and I didn't want that to change once you saw the real me. But I like you too much to lie to you."

Sam turned onto his side and brushed the hair out of Bucky's face. "My mama always said an honest man was hard to find. She'd love you." Bucky gave Sam that lazy smile he adored. "You want to stick around for my world-famous pancakes?"

"So they're world-famous now? That's big talk," Bucky said with a smirk, his eyes twinkling.

"Oh, ye of little faith."

Bucky shifted, leaning forward and kissing Sam. Sam couldn't help but curl an arm around him. "I take mine with chocolate chips. You got any?"

Sam grinned against Bucky's eager mouth. "I might."

#

Bucky awoke in Sam's bed to the smell of something sweet. He picked his clothes off the floor, dressed, and freshened up in the bathroom. When he went out to the kitchen, he found Sam cooking breakfast in his underwear. The sounds of "Me and Mrs. Jones" flowed from a small Bluetooth speaker, and Sam quietly sang along. He turned around, alerted to Bucky's presence by the soft smacking sounds of his feet against the hardwood floor. "Good morning!"

"Isn't that a health code violation?" Bucky asked, pointing to Sam and, intrinsically, his state of near-nudity.

"Probably, but we can let it slide, right?" Sam removed the pan from the burner just long enough to showcase the contents to Bucky. "I found some chocolate chips, but they're from Christmas. I think they're still good." The pancake currently cooking had red and green dots of chocolate chips inside.

"Festive. Even if it's about half a year too late."

"Christmas in July," Sam said.

There was a pod carousel beside the coffeemaker filled with different varieties and flavors of coffee. Bucky slipped past Sam and loaded up a Cinnabon-flavored pod.

"Of course you'd pick the one that barely qualifies as coffee," Sam teased.

"Then why do you have it?"

"It was in a sampler," Sam said, frowning in a way that made Bucky laugh.

He took a seat at the kitchen table; a half-stick of butter and a bottle of syrup were already placed there. Within minutes, Sam dropped pancakes onto Bucky's empty plate. "Dress 'em up however you like 'em," Sam said before serving himself. Bucky spread the hotcakes with butter and drizzled syrup on top. Sam sat across from him, eagerly awaiting Bucky's first bite.

The pancakes were, as Sam had boasted, amazing. The texture was perfect, lending to optimum syrup absorption without becoming soggy. They were by far the best homemade pancakes he'd ever had (Steve always burned one side when he made them), and Bucky couldn't think of a restaurant or pancake house that did it better. Of course, he might have been a little biased.

"Well?" Sam asked. "What do you think?"

Bucky found it endearing that Sam bothered to ask, since he could probably read Bucky's emotions in his aura. "They're fucking awesome," Bucky said, his mouth half-full. "You weren't kidding. You're awesome in the bedroom _and_ the kitchen? I feel inadequate."

"You shouldn't," Sam said with a wink. "You're pretty damn adequate yourself."

Bucky blushed and awkwardly thanked him.

They ate in a comfortable silence filled by Sam's soul playlist. Although there wasn't much conversation, Bucky didn't feel on edge the way he did when Brock was quiet. Sam was kind, gentle, accepting, and _loving_. Silence on his part meant contentment and calm, not a brewing storm.

"Got any plans for the day?" Sam asked a little while later.

"I might go for a run," Bucky said, but this time he suspected he would not run away from the past but toward the future.

#

The middle of the week found Bucky at the Rogers' house for dinner again. Peggy asked him about Sam, and Bucky was happy to report they had a date scheduled for Saturday night. As he ate, Bucky felt his nerves jangle with anticipation; he had quite a lot to say tonight, and despite Sam's reassurances, Bucky didn't know how Steve and Peggy would react. The flip-flopping inside Bucky's stomach affected his appetite, and by the time Steve and Peggy had nearly cleaned their plates, Bucky's own was still half-full.

"Too spicy for you?" Peggy asked. She had cooked _buldak,_ a Korean dish involving hot wings with cheese.

Bucky shook his head. "No, I just… I have a lot to say tonight, and it's made me a little queasy."

Steve looked at him with what Bucky thought was a scrutinizing gaze. "What's on your mind, Buck?"

"Is it the godfather thing?" Peggy asked. "I'm sorry if we came on a little strong about that."

"I'd love to accept," Bucky said, "but it doesn't seem fair without telling you a few things first."

Bucky told them the whole awful tale. It was worse the second time around. Telling Sam had been like ripping the band-aid off a wound; telling these two was more like digging into the exposed flesh and gristle of that wound. He certainly felt raw and bleeding by the end of it, his eyes red-rimmed and teary. At some point during his tale, Peggy had gotten up from the table to fetch tissues for him. They remained balled into his fist, as though unwilling to surrender more evidence of his pain.

When he finished, he took a deep, shuddering breath. He still could not look either of them in the eyes, but Peggy felt safest, if he had to choose.

"I thought it must have been something like that," Steve said.

Bucky was astounded to hear the utter calm in Steve's voice, the _assurance_, as if he'd suspected this all along.

"You think we didn't spend some long nights figuring out how you made it back?" Steve gave Bucky a warm, I'm-here-to-help smile, the kind of smile he probably gave to little old ladies who had their purses stolen. "I see a lot more domestic incidents than I'd like to remember; I know how hard it is to get someone like that away from you. When you tried to sell us your story about how Brock broke up with you for some other guy, we went ahead and bought it, mostly to put you at ease."

"Men like Brock don't give up," Peggy said gravely. "If you had left him, he would have tracked you down. The only way you could be here safe is if you took him out."

Bucky managed a weak laugh. "'Take him out'? You make me sound like some kind of sniper." Peggy and Steve offered smiles, clearly humoring him. "Why aren't you freaking out? I killed someone."

"In self-defense," Steve said.

Bucky couldn't believe what he was hearing. "Did you fall asleep when I said it was very much premeditated?"

Steve shook his head. "Brock made you think sticking up for yourself was wrong, and maybe he suggested you weren't worth defending. But you broke out of his spell. That premeditation, as you call it, was your sense of self-preservation waking up. The way I see it, you realized you were in a dangerous situation and needed to act."

"I doubt a court of law would see it that way," Bucky said.

"So it's a good thing they'll never hear about it," Steve said with a smile and a wink. "At any rate, there isn't much I can do here as an officer of the law. The crime occurred on foreign soil, and the US won't send you to Russia to face charges—you did your homework on that front."

"Premeditation," Bucky said again.

Steve dismissed this with a handwave. "You just can't accept that you're not the bad guy, can you?"

"Whatever Brock said you were, he was lying," Peggy said, striking the underlying chord in the conversation.

"He wasn't always cruel. I mean, he had— he had his moments where he was… okay." In some way, Bucky thought he'd always be making excuses for Brock, as if the criticism of Brock was a criticism of Bucky himself and his willingness to stay for so long.

"That's how they get you," Peggy said sadly, which made Bucky wonder if she had personal experience with the subject. "But you're free now. Remember that when things get tough."

Bucky said that he would. "You're still gung-ho about the godfather thing? Even after hearing all this?"

"Of course," Steve said, as if there were no other answer. "I'm with you 'til the end of the line, remember?"

Bucky did remember, and this time he did not argue.

After dessert (an ice cream pie, the perfect antidote for the heat of summer and the spicy chicken wings), Steve walked him out, as he usually did on such occasions. Steve had his arm slung around Bucky's shoulders, and Bucky felt welcomed into the fold of their friendship again. It was a wonderful thing to be _known_ by another and accepted for who you are. Bucky had felt this way before Brock, and it excited him that those feelings had begun to resurface.

"I've been thinking," Bucky said when they made it to the curb where his Jeep sat parallel-parked. "If you can ignore all that awful business, maybe I can too. Maybe that was a different life, a different Bucky, and he died with Brock."

"Sounds like a good start," Steve said, and Bucky thought so too.


End file.
